


Memories of Lavender

by Rakshi



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:19:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rakshi/pseuds/Rakshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story has strong elements of hurt and comfort in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories of Lavender

Bag End was the largest Hobbit hole in the Shire. Its builder, Bungo Baggins, disliked clutter immensely and he had seen to it that the corridors and rooms in Bag End contained many a pantry, cubby-hole, closet, and cupboard. Some of these storage areas were in plain view and easily accessible. Others were hidden behind pictures or under trap doors in the floor and required a bit more ingenuity if you wanted a peek at whatever treasures might lie within.

Today Samwise Gamgee had searched through nearly all of them, hunting for his very favorite pair of gardening shears. He had peered into boxes and bags. He had looked behind every item on every shelf, all to no avail.

He questioned Rosie, who told him gently: “Sam, dear, I have no idea where you stored your shears at end of season last year. Have you checked the greenhouse?” and shooed him out of her kitchen. He had questioned his children, but none of them had seen his shears or recalled hearing him say where he put them.

The shears had belonged to Sam’s Gaffer, Hamfast, and had been used to trim the gardens around Bag End since old Mr. Bilbo lived there. Sam treasured them for that reason and for many others, and was determined to find them.

“Snakes and adders,” Sam muttered, lifting the trapdoor leading to an obscure cubbyhole under the floor in a back pantry. “Why I’m lookin’ here I have **no** earthly notion. I ain’t been in this cubbyhole for years past countin’, and that’s a fact.” He lowered a lantern and peered into the dark storage area. “I thought so,” Sam said, scowling. “No shears. But - ” he lowered the lantern a bit further, “ - what’s _this_?”

Nestled in a corner of the snug, dry storage area was a small chest. It was covered in a fine dust and unadorned save for brass handles on each side. Stretching out his hand, Sam grasped one of the handles and pulled, dragging the small chest out of the hole. He sat it on the floor then closed the trap door, staring at the chest curiously. It was strangely familiar and looking at it gave him an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. “I’ve seen this before, but I’ll be hanged if I can remember where - ” His voice trailed off.

He brushed his fingers across the top, wiping away a bit of dust, and saw a small letter scratched in the chest’s top. “S,” Sam whispered. “It’s an ‘S’.” He stared for a moment longer, bending low over the small casket. “’S’ for Samwise,” he whispered, his eyes widening with a dawning awareness. “This is mine. This is my old chest,” he said slowly. “I used it when–”

His head jerked up and he gasped. Memory flooded through him. Memory and pain. For a long time his eyes stared, unseeing, at the pantry wall. Then he looked once again at the small box. “I used it when we first came back,” he whispered. “I put my things into it. My treasures from that time. Treasures that reminded me of – of _him_ ”

He sat the lantern on a small table, then lifted the chest onto his lap. With trembling fingers he reached for the top and slowly, slowly raised it.

An ivory handkerchief lay on top, neatly folded with three corners pointed up just the way Mister Frodo liked it. Sam lifted it gently. He was fearful that time had weakened the cloth, but found that it was as whole and soft as when he had place it here years before. He pressed the cloth to his lips, eyes closed in remembrance of the many times he had placed this handkerchief, or one like it, in the pocket of his beloved’s jacket.

“I always patted it once it was in his pocket,” Sam whispered. “Not that there was any need, for the linen was smooth as a silken handkerchief in the pocket of a king. I did it so I could touch him.” Sam sighed and caressed the white linen, then whispered wistfully. “I did so love to touch him.”

Underneath the handkerchief were several handwritten notes, a bookmark upon which Frodo had drawn the letter ‘S’, a watch fob his master had worn once-upon-a-time, and underneath all, a small glass vial, tightly sealed with a stopper.

The vial appeared to be empty, but Sam pulled the stopper and lifted it to his nose, inhaling deeply. “My lavender oil,” he breathed, inhaling again, believing for an instant that he caught the faintest hint of lavender scent. _‘Could it **be**?’_ Sam thought. _’Could I smell that sweet perfume after all these years?”_ He shook his head, feeling hot tears spring into his eyes.

He had carried this vial with him, buried deep in his pack, all the way to Mordor and back again. When the pack had been tossed aside in the midst of that black land, the vial had been transferred to his pocket for Sam had not been able to bear the thought of parting with it. “I remember,” Sam said in a choked whispered. “Oh, Frodo! My treasure. My dear love.” Overwhelmed with grief he pressed the vial to his breast – remembering.

_Rivendell_

> The hand and arm beneath his fingers had felt cold to the touch - icy cold. And though Sam had spent hours holding that hand tight in his own - tenderly chafing the skin to warm it, Frodo’s arm lay chilled and inert against the white sheets. But more alarming yet was the blankness of Frodo’s face as he lay unconscious on the huge bed.
> 
> On countless occasions through the years, Sam had lain beside Frodo watching his sleeping face and always the sight had touched his heart with breathless joy. Even in sleep Frodo was beautiful. Even in sleep the softly changing expressions of his face had left Sam spellbound and helpless with love. But not now. Now the face he loved was devoid of expression – a vacant mask that mocked his former loveliness. The essence – the very soul - of the one he loved had fled, and now seemed to wander, lost and alone, far from Sam’s love and comfort.
> 
> He reached for the small vial in his pocket. He had little hope that the oil he carried would do any good. But Frodo loved the smell of lavender and old Pansy Deepdelver from Overlook had told Sam that lavender helped to _‘heal the spirit’_.
> 
> Carefully he sprinkled a few precious drops onto Frodo’s chilly arm and began to massage the oil gently into his skin. Sam’s strong brown fingers moved slowly, caressingly – fearful of causing pain to the wounded arm and shoulder. For a long time he continued his tender ministrations while his eyes anxiously scanned Frodo’s face for any sign of life.
> 
> He rubbed the oil soothingly into each finger and the palm then, sighing, he lifted Frodo’s hand to his face and pressed it to his cheek. “Come back,” he whispered, his voice filled with longing. “Come back to me.” The scent of lavender filled the air, fresh, pure, sweet as springtime in the Shire, and Sam’s eyes closed as he pressed his beloved’s palm to his lips.
> 
> Frodo suddenly sighed gently, his breath a whisper, and Sam’s eyes flew open, his heart shuddering with hope. “Frodo?” he said quickly. “Frodo, dear one?”
> 
> Still holding Frodo’s hand he moved closer, peering into Frodo’s face feeling his heart thunder in his chest. There _was_ a change! The hand he held was warmer! Not warm. Not yet. But better. Frodo’s face had lost the empty look of soullessness that had so frightened Sam earlier. And as he gazed, Sam thought he saw a faint glow, a soft light which seemed to emanate from the one he loved, surrounding him like a soft blanket of radiance. He slept now. Peacefully. Quietly.
> 
> “It’s going to be alright now, Mister Frodo,” he whispered, lying close beside Frodo, stroking his brow. His fingers, still coated with lavender oil, left shining streaks on Frodo’s forehead.
> 
> “It’s going to be alright.”

Sam raised the vial to his nose again and inhaled deeply. Perhaps it was merely memory. But the scent of lavender seemed to fill the room and his mind drifted back through the years… once again remembering.

_Moria_

> Frodo stumbled and fell back against Sam who quickly reached to support him. “Steady, Mr. Frodo.”
> 
> He propped Frodo’s body from behind, grasping his waist, guiding him slowly forward. They were surrounded by darkness. The faint glow from Gandalf’s staff just ahead was their only guide as they wandered through the gloomy mine shaft.
> 
> Their path was steep and rocky. For endless hours they climbed, moving along the unstable passage, feeling the rocks shift under their feet as they scrabbled over patches of loose stone.
> 
> Eventually, lifting their aching legs to take a step became a supreme effort of will. Sam helped Frodo as best he could, but often they were forced to move in file and all he could do was support him from behind as they wound their way forward. When Gandalf finally called a halt for the night, Frodo sank to the ground and leaned his back against the rock wall, grimacing as he rubbed his legs.
> 
> “Sam, could I please have a sip of water from your bottle? I’m sorry. Mine is empty. I just need a mouthful.”
> 
> His voice was weary and apologetic, and Sam was struck to the heart. He knew Frodo was exhausted and in pain. They all were. Yet he still retained the same sweetness of spirit that seemed to be the very essence of his nature. Sam knelt next to him offering the water bottle, wishing with all his heart that he had more to give. “Please drink, master. Please drink your fill. I’m not a bit thirsty and my bottle’s nearly full.”
> 
> Frodo drank, holding the bottle with one hand while the other still chafed his legs, trying in vain to ease the cramps and stiffness. Sam watched him with an aching heart, the pain in his own legs forgotten in his desire to ease Frodo’s distress. He drew a small vial from his pack, then spoke pleadingly to Frodo: “Master, perhaps a touch of lavender on your legs will ease them some. Please let me try. You favor the scent and I’ve plenty left.”
> 
> Frodo smiled up at him. “If you wish, Sam.” He laid the water bottle aside and leaned back against the rock wall again, sighing. “But you’re tired too. You should rest, dear heart.”
> 
> “Not too tired for this,” Sam murmured, kneeling before Frodo. He pushed the hem of Frodo’s breeches a bit higher revealing the bottom of his thighs. Swallowing hard, Sam shook a dollop of lavender oil onto his hands and rubbed them together.
> 
> Frodo’s legs were smooth and shapely, though well muscled. Sam stared at them as he massaging Frodo’s calves with long, firm strokes, and tried to control the desire which coursed hotly through his body. Feeling Frodo’s skin beneath his fingers electrified Sam’s senses. Had they been alone, Sam knew that his soothing massage would not – **could not** \- have ended with Frodo’s legs. He yearned to cover Frodo’s entire body with the sweet scent of lavender, and then use the slippery substance to ease his way into….
> 
> Sam bit his lip and forced his mind to think of something else - **anything** else. He gently kneaded Frodo’s calves, trying not to look at the pale, silky skin of his thighs that glowed near the hem of his breeches. ‘ _’I’d best not be spreadin’ this oil **there** ,”_ Sam thought, half angry with himself. _’I couldn’t a’bear it, and that’s a fact.”_
> 
> He could already feel a burgeoning erection throbbing against his thigh and flushed with embarrassment at the thought of rising, sure that Frodo would notice. If the sight of Frodo’s creamy thighs did **this** to him, what would happen if he actually touched them - caressed them – covered them with the sweet smelling oil?
> 
> “That feels wonderful, Sam,” Frodo sighed, and, glancing up, Sam saw that his eyes were closed and that he seemed to be drifting toward sleep. Relieved, he caressed the last bit of oil into Frodo’s sore knees, then, leaning back a bit, put the stopper back in the bottle.
> 
> As he started to rise, he felt Frodo’s hand capture his, and glancing down he saw sapphire blue eyes gazing at him with a look of love and gratitude. “Thank you, dearest Sam,” he whispered. “My legs feel ever so much better, and the scent of the lavender is easing me into sleep.”
> 
> “Rest then, dearest master,” Sam whispered in return.
> 
> “Yes, I shall rest now, my Sam,” Frodo said in a low voice. “But keep the lavender oil close at hand would you?” His eyes slanted mischievously. “Perhaps later we shan’t have as much need for sleep and could explore one of the small side tunnels just a bit.”
> 
> Sam smiled and tucked the vial into his breast pocket. “’Tis here safe in my pocket,” he said, patting the vial gently. “And it shall fly to my hand quick as a hummingbird the moment you’ve taken your rest.”
> 
> As Frodo’s eyes slowly closed his hand drifted down to caress Sam’s thigh.
> 
> Sam swallowed hard. “The **very** moment,” he promised.

Sam smiled at the memory. After Frodo awoke they **had** explored one of the side tunnels, though they hadn’t wandered far for fear of becoming lost in Moria’s grim warren of tunnels. Even that brief absence drew a worried frown from Aragorn and a sharp word from Gandalf. “But, blessed Eru, it was worth it,” Sam said softly. “For those few moments when I held him in my arms, Moria was no longer a dark and dreary cavern. It seemed a place filled with light and beauty.”

Then he frowned. “But not even the love we shared could lift the darkness of that other place. That horrible place.” Sam didn’t name it. But his mind now recalled their nightmare journey through the sinister wastelands of Mordor.

_Mordor_

> They were moving, unsteadily, through irregular folds of barren land, lost in the ghostly darkness that now surrounded them. Frodo, unable to see the group of rocks in his path, tripped and lurched toward the ground. Sam quickly reached to catch him, but his own weariness and pain frustrated his effort, and Frodo fell. As he struck the hard ground he cried out in pain then collapsed flat on his face, moaning piteously.
> 
> Sam was on his knees in an instant and quickly gathered Frodo into his arms, rocking him gently. “Forgive me, my dear one,” he murmured, his heart wrung with pain and grief. “Curse me for a dolt, I should not have let you wander ahead through this wretched darkness. I’ll be goin’ ahead from now on to clear the path for you.”
> 
> A deep, shuddering sigh was Frodo’s only response. He lifted his eyes, and in their azure depths Sam could see only pain and despair. A hopelessness of spirit was consuming the master whom he loved. Sam held him tighter, yearning to protect him, but knowing he could not.
> 
> He would have fought any enemy to shield Frodo from harm, but the evil that threatened to corrupt his master’s soul was not one Sam could battle. It hung from a slender chain around Frodo’s neck, and Sam knew that to try to take the Ring now would do no good, and worse, might cause even greater harm.
> 
> Sighing, he shifted Frodo’s weight and reached in his pack, desperately seeking the few remaining crumbs of lembas. Finding one small but solid piece, he lifted it to Frodo’s lips and watched as he weakly ate directly from Sam’s hand.
> 
> After a moment Sam eased him back, propping him against a nearby bolder, sliding his cloak under Frodo’s head to lessen the hardness of the rock beneath him.
> 
> Frodo settled against the black slab, wincing as Sam knelt near him. “Your poor feet,” Sam moaned, tenderly taking Frodo’s left foot into his hands. It was covered in bruises and jagged tears from battling the harsh terrain. Blood caked in his soft foot-fur, and his other foot was equally wounded. _’If only I had some water to soothe them,’_ Sam thought, but their water was gone and Sam knew there would be no more.
> 
> Sam fumbled in his bag for a moment, then drew out the small vial that he had carried so far. There was still a bit left. Maybe enough to…
> 
> He shook the few remaining drops onto his fingers and began to tenderly massage Frodo’s injured feet. The fragrance of the lavender oil rose, filling his head, driving away the sickly stench of Mordor. And in that moment he felt that sweet aroma permeate his being, lifting his spirit, refreshing his mind.
> 
> Gently he caressed the oil into Frodo’s bruised and battered flesh, and as he did he inhaled deeply, desperately hoping that Frodo, too, was drawing in the feeling of health and cleansing that was carried on that wholesome aroma.
> 
> The lavender seemed to, bringing a sense of redemption where before there had been only bitter darkness. And even in that black land it seemed to make all things fresh and innocent.
> 
> Sam’s strong, brown fingers trembled as they moved slowly, caressingly over Frodo’s feet, barely skimming the purplish flesh beneath them. Hoping to inhale more of the sweet lavender scent he drew in another deep breath, and it shuddered through his constricted chest. His eyes burned with tears as he lifted his head to gaze upon the master he loved and he hastily choked back a sob.
> 
> Frodo looked down at him and a small smile touched his lips. His body still slumped with exhaustion but his eyes shone with a brilliant light, and Sam could see that that the lavender had, in some small way revived Frodo’s ravished spirit. They both breathed easier now. The lavender had somehow cleansed the heavy poisonous air of Mordor.
> 
> “Thank you, my dearest Sam,” Frodo sighed. “The pain in my feet has eased. And the lavender scent is wondrous good.”
> 
> “It seems to fill your heart,” Sam whispered. “and undo the dark sickness of this horrid place.”
> 
> Frodo nodded, his fingers reaching to tangle in a tender caress in Sam’s brown curls. “’Tis well that it does,” he murmured wearily. “For I cannot.”

  
The memory faded.

Still holding the, now empty, vial Sam squirmed into a more comfortable position on the pantry floor. _’Tis well we had those few drops left,’_ he thought. _’Who’s to say but what they may have put the heart back in both of us. Givin’ up would have easy back then. But after we used those last drops we had just enough strength to go on._

They had **not** given up. And later, after they had been carried from the fiery mountain, healed by the hand of Aragorn, and feted on the fields of Cormallen, Sam thought often of the lavender and was grateful for its curative essence. So grateful, in fact, that on a sunny afternoon a few weeks after they awoke from their healing sleep he approached the king and gently tugged on his sleeve. “Beggin’ your pardon, Strider - excuse me, sir, I mean your majesty, King Aragorn.”

“Strider it is, Sam,” Aragorn replied, smiling at him and laying a gentle hand on his arm. “I hope you’ll call me Strider for the rest of your days, my dear Hobbit.”

Sam blushed. “Thank’ee kindly, sir.” He held up his small vial. “Sir, this once held a bit of lavender oil made for me by Miss Pansy Deepdelver from up Overlook way. And it helped me, now and then, to soothe my master’s pain through our long journey.”

Aragorn took the vial and smiled at Sam. “Then I also owe a debt of gratitude to Miss Pansy Deepdelver of Overlook. What is your wish, my Samwise?”

“Is there one among your great company who has the skill of making lavender oil, sir? My vial is empty, but I may yet have need of the remedy it held.” He looked toward Frodo who was sitting with their friends in a nearby alcove. He seemed to Sam to be a pale, delicate leaf through which the light of life shown but dimly, and he turned back to Aragorn with a renewed sense of urgency. “There are times when I fear –,” Sam hesitated, then cleared his throat and continued. “There are times when a dark mood seems fall on him.”

For a long moment Aragorn’s eyes gazed upon the Ringbearer, regarding him thoughtfully. There was a far-away look in Frodo’s eyes and he spoke but little. His smile seemed strained and he often had to be summoned back into conversations, as if his mind had been drifting aimlessly

Aragorn recalled the transparency of the Nazgul, and felt an aching sadness fill his heart, for it seemed to him that something of that transparency was now part of Frodo’s very being. The King’s gaze returned to Sam who looked at him appealingly.

“It shall be done, my Samwise,” Aragorn said in a low voice. “It shall be done this very day.”

The King’s own herb-master returned Sam’s vial later that day, filled to overflowing. He had, at the King’s command, used all the skills of his profession to create the sweetest lavender oil ever crafted. It shone in the vial, clear as crystal and the scent was both heady and revitalizing. From his first sniff at the still-sealed vial, Sam knew that its healing properties were beyond doubt.

And though the smell of lavender oil would forever conjure up memories of the dark days and the pain his master endured, it also recalled memories of another kind. Memories filled with light, and passion, and the enduring love from which they flowed.

“Cormallen,” Sam whispered, lifting the vial to his lips and kissing it. “Cormallen.”

_Cormallen_

> They lay naked together in the soft bed provided for Frodo by their host, the King. Sam had his own bed, of course. Just as soft, just as comfortable, and adorned, like Frodo’s, with the finest feather-beds in all of Gondor. It had never been slept in.
> 
> Sam often lay awake beside Frodo watching over him as he lay in uneasy sleep, stroking his hair and brow when small whimpers would pour from his throat as he dreamt. Sam never asked what these dark dreams were about. He didn’t have to ask. He knew.
> 
> Frodo was tormented by dreams in which he still walked in darkness and pain, enslaved no longer by the Ring, but by his longing for it - and, by the guilt and shame which this longing created within him.
> 
> And yet, when Sam lay by his side and stroked him gently, the abundant love which flowed from his heart seemed to reach Frodo even in the midst of his harrowing dreams. His whimpers would change to soft murmurs, and he would turn to Sam, his arms reaching to embrace him. And in that embrace Frodo, the wanderer, would find peace.
> 
> Tonight, though, Frodo did not dream. He lay by Sam’s side, softly caressing his face, smiling into his deep brown eyes. “I heard from Merry that Aragorn’s herb-master came to see you today. And what, pray tell, did he want from the Shire’s foremost gardener? Help for an ailing plant I deem.”
> 
> Sam bent his head and with infinite tenderness pressed his lips to the full, rich mouth so close to his own. For a moment Frodo’s question was forgotten, and Sam lost himself in the helpless craving which Frodo’s kiss always aroused in him. Then he shook his head.
> 
> “No, my love. The herb-master wanted no advise. I’m sure he has gardeners of his own who watch over his herbs, and I doubt not that he finds their counsel a better match for his skills than your Sam’s would be. No. He brought me this.” He reached to one side and took up the now-full vial of lavender oil. Showing it to Frodo, he smiled. “I made so bold as to ask the King himself if he knew of any who could refill my vial. And Strider - I mean King Aragorn - was quick to call upon his herb-master.”
> 
> Sam held the vial to Frodo’s nose. “Smell!” he said. “’Tis the equal of Pansy Deepdelver’s if it doesn’t better it. The scent is wonderful!” Sam inhaled deeply and smiled. “And the oil itself seems pure and sweet.”
> 
> “But are you **sure** , my Sam?” Frodo asked, his eyes twinkling. “Perhaps we should try this oil before deciding on its worth?”
> 
> Sam’s breath caught in his throat and, nodding, he removed the stopper and poured a few drops of the precious oil onto his hand. Looking into Frodo’s eyes, he replacing the stopper and laid the vial aside.
> 
> His eyes traveled down the length of Frodo’s body. The visual wealth of his alabaster nakedness was almost more than Sam could bear. Trembling, he bent his head - his lips pressed to Frodo’s throat as his wet hand slid down Frodo’s chest. His fingers lingered over the rose-velvet nipples, caressing them with the slippery oil until he heard Frodo moan and felt the sensitive buds harden beneath his caresses.
> 
> Whimpering, Sam kissed Frodo’s oil-damp chest, letting his wet tongue follow the curve of Frodo’s breast until his mouth covered one taut nipple. As he kissed and sucked, his hand wandered to the other, caressing it with the oily pad of his thumb. Frodo’s moans were a low, rumbling purr which sent hot stabs of desire coursing through Sam’s body. “Oh, my Frodo, the taste of your skin! Even with this oil I can taste you… YOU.”
> 
> Sam’s hand dipped lower, slicking Frodo’s belly with the sweetly scented oil before moving his hand to the down-soft curls beneath.
> 
> Frodo gasped slightly as Sam’s hand gripped his throbbing erection, stroking it gently but firmly as his lips returned to capture Frodo’s beneath his own in a soft, lingering kiss. The touch of Frodo’s lips was intoxicating. Drowning in bliss, he drew in a sobbing breath, feeding on the sweet essence of Frodo’s kisses as his hand moved slowly, purposefully, to stroke again and again, until Frodo cried out in mindless desire.
> 
> “Sam,” he gasped, clutching Sam’s shoulders. ‘Please…. Oh, oh, ye – yes, please!”
> 
> Reaching next to him, Sam unstopped the small vial and spilled more of the aromatic oil into his hand. One finger then moved to wetly caress the opening to Frodo’s body. As he felt Frodo’s hips buck beneath him, he dipped his head and touched his mouth to the head of Frodo’s penis. His tongue gently caressed the taut silken skin, licking away the drops of Frodo’s essence that had slipped out.
> 
> Chest heaving with the force of his own desire, Sam licked the length of Frodo’s cock, savoring the sweet taste of him, while at the same time he slicked the entrance to Frodo’s body and his own hardness with the sweet lavender oil.
> 
> Slowly, with infinite tenderness, Sam’s lips moved higher, kissing his way up the length of Frodo’s writhing body as he gently joined his body to his lover’s, hearing Frodo’s breath becoming harsh and uneven, as he clutched at Sam, urging him closer.
> 
> Sam moaned against Frodo’s chest, and overwhelmed by his aching need, plunged deeply into Frodo’s heated core, hearing Frodo’s cry of joy as from a dim distance. He withdrew slightly, then pressed deep again, filling Frodo completely, jolting their bodies with the force of his ardor. Again and again he surged forward, increasing the tempo of his thrusts as Frodo’s body rose to meet them.
> 
> Crying out with every motion, aware of nothing except his sense of complete unity with the one he loved, Sam felt his climax building, consuming his every pore, his mind and body dissolving into molten desire. He reached between them and gripped Frodo’s swollen member in his fist, pumping it in perfect rhythm with the motion of his hips, then drove into Frodo, grinding against his body as they both came in an explosion of ecstasy.
> 
> Holding each other close, their eyes drifted shut, lost in the sweet bliss of their union, their heads filled with the scent of each other’s bodies and the pungent aroma of lavender.

_Present Day_

Once again Sam pressed the vial to his lips. The memory of his long-ago joining with Frodo and the ecstasy of their lovemaking was bitter-sweet and as he sat staring at the chest containing tokens of his lost past he was filled with an overwhelming sense of loss.

Sighing, he rose, the vial still clutched in his hand. “There must be someone… somewhere in the shire,” he said shakily. “Someone to fill this vial once more with the sweetness of lavender.” Sam wandered from the pantry and out into the Shire’s fair sunshine.

“I reckon I’m naught but a fool to think that someday I might…,” he hesitated – “… that he and I could ever…” Sam fell silent, staring at the empty vial. “And yet, there was his whisper on the day he left me. His promise that one day…” Again he fell silent, deep in thought.

Then, clutching the vial in his hand, Sam spun decisively on his heel and walked firmly toward the village… in search of lavender.


End file.
